


A Baker Street Christmas Carol

by Dorian They (high_functioning_timelord)



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angsty gays are angsty, Christmas Angst, Christmas Fluff, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, I've fallen down a research rabbit hole, John and Harry as closeted teens, M/M, Military Homophobia, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Plot twist: John Watson is Ebenezer Scrooge, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson at Christmas, Sherlock drugs John, except he succeeds this time, like he tried to in The Hounds of Baskerville, seriously there's so much angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28065261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/high_functioning_timelord/pseuds/Dorian%20They
Summary: Ten years post-Reichenbach, John Watson has become a bitter, lonely old Scrooge. Not-dead Sherlock Holmes decides he’s had quite enough of John’s brooding, but before he makes his dramatic return, Sherlock gives John a Christmas Eve he'll never forget.(aka Sherlock is a drama queen and orchestrates some truly elaborate shenanigans, à la the opening of S4e3)
Relationships: Minor James Sholto/John Watson - Relationship, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16
Collections: An Assemblage of Johnlock Favourites





	1. STAVE ONE.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendymarlowe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/gifts), [BeautifulFiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/gifts).



> I've had this idea in my head for literally 3 years and this year I finally sat myself down and wrote it up!
> 
> There are _tonnes_ of easter eggs and quotes from the show sprinkled throughout, so happy hunting!
> 
> HUGE thanks to my lovely betas, ladyofhealing and melsner for catching the worst of my typos and inspiring me with their endless wit <3

**HOLMES'S GHOST.** **  
**

Sherlock Holmes was dead, to begin with. There was no doubt whatsoever about that.

John Watson knew he was dead. Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? He and Sherlock had been crime-solving partners and flatmates for years by the time Sherlock rather unceremoniously fell to his death from the roof of St. Bart's Hospital. John Watson had been his sole companion, his sole carer, his sole blogger, and his sole friend. Well, at least according to Sherlock "I don't have friends I've just got one" Holmes.

Such as it was, John knew, for a fact, that Sherlock Holmes was as dead as a door-nail.

Although come to think of it, John’s couldn’t fathom what was particularly “dead” about a door-nail. Had he put any thought to it, he might’ve mused that a coffin-nail was the deadest piece of ironmongery in the nail trade. But he supposed the wisdom of England’s Great Authors is in the simile; and brusque military minds such as John’s should not attempt to disturb it, or the Country would be done for. As such, John repeated to himself, daily and emphatically, that Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, dead as a door-nail.

In the ten years since Sherlock’s untimely Fall, John’s once soft heart had turned hard and sharp as flint. He became secretive, self-contained, and completely solitary. The cold within him froze his features, nipped his once round nose, shrivelled his ruddy cheeks, stiffened his gait; made his brow droop, his lips pale, and all-around roughened his once warm bedside manner.  
  
Despite his own hard-heartedness, John had never gotten around to taking down Sherlock’s immaculate, if pedantic, website, nor his own simplistic blog recounting the trivial details of their adventures together. There they stood, ten years afterwards, for anyone to see: the adventures of confirmed bachelors Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Sometimes people on the street would call after John saying, “Dr. Watson!” and rush down the pavement in the hopes of procuring an autograph or a photo, but more often they'd receive a withering stare and the occasional V-sign if he was feeling particularly Scrooge-y that day.  
  
Sometimes, newer fans, who had joined the ranks after the detective’s death, mistakenly regarded him as “Mr. Holmes!” but he unwittingly answered to that as well. Hearing the name alone was enough to stop John in his tracks. And after all, it wasn’t the first time someone had mistaken him for The Late Great Detective.  
  


* * *

On this particular Christmas Eve morning, John shoved his keys into his coat pocket and walked briskly away from his run-down flat. It was all he could afford with his army pension and the modest pay from the surgery. Mycroft had initially insisted that John take some of the money from Sherlock’s generous life insurance fund or, at the very least, allow Mycroft to issue him a monthly allowance, but John wanted no part in that.  
  
In the years following Sherlock’s death, everything to do with him had been scrubbed clean from John’s life; his flat, his work, his funds, his dwindling social circle. Nothing could remain that reminded him in the slightest of that exhilarating and tragic chapter of his life. Although his efforts were almost entirely in vain; John saw traces of Sherlock everywhere in London. Most days he half expected to see his curly mop of hair sliding into a cab or his tall frame gliding past him on the street. The Ghost of Sherlock Holmes was everywhere for John.

“John! John Watson! A merry Christmas to you!” cried a cheery voice. It was the voice of Watson’s old school friend, Mike Stamford. John been so plagued by his thoughts that he hadn’t even seen him approach, otherwise he might’ve cut down the alley to avoid him.

“Mike,” said John curtly, waving a hand but not stopping.

Mike hurried to catch up, carefully balancing several hastily wrapped parcels in his arms. His round, ruddy face was all a glow and his eyes sparkled as his breath smoked again.

“What? No ‘Merry Christmas’ from you, Watson?” asked Stamford.  
  
“Nope, I don’t think so. Not feeling particularly ‘merry,’ Mike.”  
  
“Oh but it's Christmas, John! You don’t mean that, surely?”

“I do,” said Watson. “What reason does anyone have to be merry this time of year, given the state of the world? What reason do _you_ have to be merry? Your teaching position isn’t affording you a life of luxury, I imagine.”

“Oh come on, John, you know money isn’t everything,” returned Stamford gaily. He quickly repositioned his parcels as one tried to escape his grasp. “What reason do you have to be so… morose?”  
  
“You know exactly what reason I have!” John snapped suddenly. He realised he had rounded on Mike, his fists clenched white at his sides. He quickly released them and looked around at the startled passersby a bit sheepishly. He cleared his throat.  
  
“Sorry. Sorry, it’s just-“

“My god,” breathed Stamford, taken aback. “It’s been ten years. I thought, surely, you’d have found someone by now or…”

“Found someone?” balked John, giving the clear insinuation there a wide berth. He smiled bitterly. “You thought I’d just be off in the country somewhere, living happily ever after?” He chuckled darkly. “C’mon Mike, who’d want me for a husband?”  
  
“Well, it is Christmas…” Mike offered lamely.  
  
“What has Christmas got to do with anything? Christmas is just another time for paying bills with money you don’t have. A time where you find yourself just another year older, another year lonelier, and not one cent richer,” spat John. “Every bastard who goes about saying ‘Merry Christmas’ should be, I dunno, boiled in his own pudding!” He turned on his heel and started down the path again.

“John!”

“Celebrate Christmas your own way, Mike, and let me celebrate it in mine.”

“Celebrate it?” repeated Stamford, hurrying after him. “But you don’t celebrate it.”

“Let me leave it alone, then,” said John. “And you can enjoy whatever good it does you.”

“I will enjoy _all_ the good it does me,” countered Stamford, not letting up. “Christmas is such as a happy time, John! A kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time. It’s the only time I know of in the whole calendar year when Londoners all silently agree to be nice to one another. So I believe that Christmas _has_ done me good, and it _will_ do me good. And I think it would do you good too, if you let it.”

“That’s quite the speech, Mike,” John began, turning back to him. “But I am not one of your students in need of a lecture.”

“Oh, don’t be angry, John. Please, come have Christmas with us tomorrow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But why?” pleaded Stamford. “Why John?”

“Does a man have to have a reason to want to be left alone?” retorted John. He shook his head and said, “Goodbye, Mike” then walked briskly down the lane.

“Oh c’mon John,” said Mike, breathlessly. “You’ve turned me down every year since-“

“I said, goodbye!”

Mike hurried after him, huffing and puffing all the way. John did not slow his pace.

“I’m sorry,” Mike called after him. “with all my heart, to find you like this after all these years. Please John, I- I know you’re hurting. We all do.”  
  
John slowed to a stop.  
  
“But don’t take it out on me, mate. We never had any quarrels, not even when you bested me at every turn back at Bart’s,” Mike smiled softly at the memory. “We were good friends, John.”  
  
“Were,” John noted.  
  
“Alright,” Mike conceded, “if that’s the way you’d like it.” He looked far from defeated, but he clearly knew from experience when to stop pushing. “But Christmas is still my favourite time of year and I’m keeping my Christmas spirit to the last. So Merry Christmas, John!”

“Goodbye, Mike,” said Watson.

“And A Happy New Year!” Mike called back cheerily.

“Goodbye Mike!”  
  


* * *

  
John finally rounded the last corner and flung open the door of the surgery. He swept past the clerk without a single word of greeting and locked himself in his office. He barely heard the clerk brightly calling,“Merry Christmas, John!” after him. Molly Hooper’s cheery disposition was absolutely unwavering this time of year and John was in no mood for it, today of all days.  
  
After Sherlock, Molly had said she couldn’t bring herself to be surrounded by the dead anymore and applied to work the clerk position at John’s surgery. John had always suspected this was Mycroft’s doing, as the clerk’s pay was hardly comparable to the morgue at Bart’s and Molly was severely overqualified. He imagined Mycroft must’ve offered her a sizeable sum in exchange for her keeping on eye on him. John bitterly hoped the smug bastard was enjoying his daily updates on the monotonous life of a middle-aged GP in a severely underfunded mid-London surgery.

Around lunchtime, a jolly band of carol singers in Dickensian attire stopped by to regale the office with a Christmas tune, and promote their nearby show happening later that evening. Molly had greeted them warmly and eagerly ushered them into the waiting room, but at the first sound of:  
  
“God rest ye merry gentlemen,  
Let nothing you dismay…”

Dr. Watson burst from his office with such energy of action that the carol singers all fled in terror. John cleared his throat, careful to avoid Molly piercing gaze, and shut himself back in his office for the remainder of the day.

At length, the hour of shutting up the surgery had arrived. Watson stiffly rose from his chair, stretched his various aching limbs, pulled on his coat, and locked his office for the evening. He would return dark and early the very next morning since his surgery was one of the few that did not close for Christmas Day or Boxing Day. John was glad for it; he’d rather be at work busying his mind with patients than at home with only his thoughts for company.

“You’ll want the whole day off tomorrow, I suppose?” Dr. Watson remarked, pausing at Molly’s desk.

“Only if that’s alright, John. I don’t want to-”

“It’s not alright,” said Dr. Watson curtly, “Full day of managing the waiting room and my patients with no rest? We’re not exactly the most well-staffed surgery in London, Molly.”

Molly’s expression dropped.

“Yes, but it is only the one day a year,” Molly reasoned, “and it’s Christma-”

“Christmas doesn’t make extra staff appear from thin air, Molly” said Dr. Watson, buttoning the last of his coat. “In fact, it seems to have the opposite effect. But, I suppose…” John reasoned that the busier he could keep himself, the less time he’d have to dwell on things he’d rather not. He sighed, “I suppose you must have the whole day.”  
  
Molly smiled brightly, “Oh thank you, John! Merry Chris-”  
  
The door shut with a loud bang and a small jingle, and Dr. Watson walked out into the bracing London air with a huff.

* * *

  
Watson took his melancholy Christmas Eve dinner in his usual melancholy pub. The food was just alright but it was cheap and he appreciated that they were one of the last holdouts for holiday decorations. The only sign of the looming holiday was a small tree-shaped cutout taped hastily to the bartop.  
  
His dinners there were typically bland and depressing, which suited him just fine, but this evening was made all the more depressing when he learned that the usual barman was off on a last-minute holiday. The new French temp they’d called in had recommended an absolutely god-awful pint that John was currently pretending to sip while zoning out to the pub’s variety of crap telly. He finally gave up and asked the temp to bring him a cup of black coffee, which of course the berk had had the nerve to put sugar in, but at least it tasted slightly better than the beer. Finally, when he felt he could avoid it no longer, John headed home to bed.  
  
John had previously lived in a flat that had once belonged to himself and his deceased partner, Sherlock Holmes. 221B Baker Street consisted of a comfortable suite of upstairs bedrooms (two separate bedrooms, much to the media’s dismay), a small kitchen, and an airy sitting room in an old Georgian terrace run by their landlady, Mrs. Hudson. John’s new accommodations were entirely dissimilar.  
  
His current flat was a dingy set of rooms in a squat little building situated on an industrial avenue where it had so little business to be. One could scarcely help imagining that the building must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten the way out again. The whole structure was old and dreary enough now that nobody lived in it but John. The other rooms were all let out as offices and thus vacant in the evenings, leaving John to his solitude.

Now, it is a fact that, being such a dingy flat, there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door except that it was very large. It is also a fact that John had seen the knocker every morning and every night during the whole of his residence in that place. It is also a fact that John had not spared one thought on Sherlock Holmes since Stamford’s last mention of his partner that afternoon. Given this, John struggled to explain how it happened that he saw in the knocker, without it undergoing any physical process of change—not a knocker, but Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's face! It was not cloaked in shadow as the other objects on the street were at that hour and John could see it plainly. It was not an angry or ferocious face, but looked at John as Sherlock used to look on him in life; full of tempered adoration and sly amusement. The hair on it stirred curiously, as if by breath or hot air, and though the piercing blue eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless.

As John stared fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.

To say that John was not startled or that his blood was not now coursing through his veins at a positively breakneck pace would be entirely untrue. But he slowly put his hand back onto the key in the lock, turned it sturdily, walked into the hall, and flicked on the lights.

He paused, ever so slightly, before he shut the building’s front door. He looked cautiously behind it first, but there was nothing on the back of his door except the plain knocker. Frustrated at his own silliness, he shut the door a bit harder than intended and it slammed with a loud BANG!

The sound resounded through the building like thunder. Every room above and below appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. But Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door resolutely, walked down the hall, and started up the stairs.  
  
But before he shut the heavy door to his flat, he walked through his small rooms casually but carefully to ensure that he was, in fact, alone and everything was in its place. The sitting-room, bed, and bathroom were all as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a bit of water in the kettle; and the little saucepan containing the remains of this morning’s porridge upon the hob. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; and nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging suspiciously on the back of his bedroom door.

Quite satisfied that he was alone, John closed the flat door, and locked himself in. Thus secured against surprise, he took off his coat, put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and sat down in his chair to take his tea.  
  
He flicked on the telly and scrolled around to find anything to block out the void of sound in his flat.  
  
To his dismay, every channel seemed to be playing some sort of adaptation of Charles Dickens’s “A Christmas Carol” which he supposed was to be expected on Christmas Eve, but surely there had to be some other form of entertainment?  
  
Apparently not. First there was the infamous “Muppet Christmas Carol” which John couldn’t click away from fast enough; then the 70s classic “Scrooge” featuring Sir Alec Guiness droning on as Marley’s Ghost; next was a cheasy animated film he’d never seen before with some familiar sounding American voices; then a more modern, CGI version which looked like it used that motion capturing technology that gave John an unsettled feeling. And lastly, Blackadder’s Christmas Special, starring Rowan Atkinson as every role under the sun. John finally gave up and settled for that, as it at least poked fun at the whole notion instead of going along with it.  
  
John wasn’t sure when he nodded off but when he awoke it was completely dark outside and his TV set had gone to static. Odd, since he didn’t remember changing the channel. He flicked through the channels and found there was nothing on at all. Huh. Perhaps the local broadcasting station had gone out.

Suddenly, the building door downstairs flew open with a loud booming sound. John gasped and stilled to listen. He heard a strange noise echoing on the floor below; then the single groan of a floorboard on the stairs; then more, quieter shuffling, like footsteps, coming straight towards his door.

“Oh my god,” whispered Watson, covering his mouth.

He breathed quietly for a moment or two, listening carefully. Nothing.  
 _  
_Then the lock to the door of his flat slowly creaked then clicked to the unlocked position.  
  
John looked around wildly for a weapon, and finding nothing of use, braced himself for the intruder's arrival.  
  
Just then, the front door was thrown open with a great gust of wind and a tall, shadowy figure loomed in the doorway.

John was frozen on the spot. As the shadow stepped cautiously into the flat, John heard the slight groan and give of the floorboards under its feet.  
  
The shadow looked about for a moment, then suddenly spied John and rounded on him, stepping closer and closer. The hair on the back of John’s neck rose and his muscles tensed, readying to attack. But just as he was about to leap forward and issue a crushing blow, he stopped.

What appeared to be a small blue flame had begun glow within the shadow’s chest, growing brighter and brighter with every step towards John until the whole of its form seemed illuminated from within, and John could make out its features clearly.

It was the same face: the very same! Well, not the very same. He seemed a bit more gaunt than John had remembered, and were those the beginnings of wrinkles around his eyes? But besides those slight modifications, the figure standing before John bore the exact, unmistakable face and stature of the late Sherlock Holmes; his high cheekbones, his navy scarf draped about his neck, his dramatic Belstaff swept about him, the collar turned up just so. Except it wasn’t really Sherlock, or at least, not any physical version of him John had ever seen. The whole opaque figure was tinged with a vague ethereal light and though John could not feel it himself, there was an air of movement about it. While the ghostly form stood perfectly motionless, its hair, coat, and scarf were wafted about as if by the hot vapour from an oven.

It had often been said that Sherlock had no heart, and though John had never believed that, there was a compelling case to be made for it now. John swore he could look straight through the chest of the strange being before him and see the very pattern of his sitting room walls. And yet, even though John plainly saw the exact visage of his old partner standing before him, however strange and transparent it may be, John was still incredulous and fought vehemently against his senses.

“H-how…” stammered Watson. “Wh-what do you want with me?”

“Much!” The tone and timber were undoubtedly Sherlock’s. That bloody smirk too.

“Who- who are you?” John asked, dreading the answer.

“Come now, John.”

“I mean it!” cried John, raising his voice. “You… you can’t be.”

“In life I was your partner, Sherlock Holmes. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, if you’d like to be tedious about it,” the figure replied easily, over-enunciating the “k” and “t” of his name in an undeniably Sherlockian fashion.  
  
John stared at the figure, eyes wide and jaw slackened. This must be a dream, he realised. That was the only explanation. He’d had plenty of dreams featuring Sherlock before: some horrifying, some ...less so. This must just be another, coming to torment him.

“Can you— can you sit down?” asked John, looking over the transparent frame doubtfully.

“I can.”

“Alright, do it then. And we can chat about all this- this ghost business.”

The figure gracefully lowered itself into the chair the opposite John, as if he were quite used to it.

“You don’t believe me,” observed the figure.

“I don’t,” huffed John, shaking his head.

The figure raised its hands to its chin and lithely propped an ankle on its knee. “What evidence would you accept of my reality, beyond that of your senses?”

“I don’t know,” answered John truthfully.  
  
“I can tell you everything you’ve done today, or this week, even. For example, I-”  
  
“No. No, we’re not doing that,” John interrupted. “I had enough of that for a lifetime, thank you very much.”

“So then why do you doubt your senses, John?”

“Because-” started John, “because this whole thing is impossible, Sherlock! If that even is who you are. I’m a bloody doctor, for Christ’s sake! I’d know if I was having some sort of psychotic break.”  
  
“Well-" The figure tilted its head doubtfully.  
  
“No, I would. _I would._ So you- you are just a bad dream, and bad dreams can be caused by any number of things!” John stood up suddenly and began pacing manically in front of his chair. “A slight disorder of the stomach, maybe. You could be a bit of undigested beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato… There’s more of gravy than of grave about you, Sherlock!”

John caught himself. Hang on, he knew that line. He’d heard it somewhere before. The phrase echoed through the halls of his mind, ricocheting off of the walls, making the room spin slightly. He slumped back down in his chair, head in his hands. He couldn't bear to look at him, not after all these years. _  
_  
“I assure you that I’m not a bad dream. A partial hallucination may be closer to the truth. But I assure you I am very real-”  
  
“The coffee,” John blinked, puzzle pieces slowly slotting together. “Oh my god. I _knew_ it tasted- SHERLOCK! What did you do to my coffee?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest-“  
  
“Oh, this is great! I’ve really missed _this_!” shouted John, gesturing wildly between them.  
  
“John, you must understand, it was the only way I could-”  
  
“What? What must I understand, Sherlock? That once again you’ve tried to drug me, against my will? Only this time, you’ve apparently succeeded!” John spun about himself, then immediately regretted the movement. He slunk back into his chair, mumbling dejectedly to himself, “Confirmed bachelor John Watson: drugged by his dead partner and shouting at a ghost in his dressing-gown.”

“They’d sell every copy,” remarked Sherlock wryly.  
  
“Jesus Sherlock…” John pinched the bridge of his nose.  
  
Suddenly John looked up.  
  
“Wait, hang on, that doesn’t make any sense. If you’re- No. How could you have drugged my coffee if you’re-?”  
  
“Oh come now, John, the Who and the How are not important.”  
  
“Not important-!” sputtered John.  
  
“The WHY, John. WHY have you been drugged? To what end? Think!” Sherlock stared at him knowingly.  
  
“Oh no. No, don’t do The Face. You know how I feel about The Face, Sherlock.” John pointed accusingly at him.  
  
Sherlock heaved a sighed, then suddenly leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of John’s head. John could swear he felt his hands in his hair, his fingertips pressed into his temples. _How-_  
  
“Think, John. Really think. If someone were to drug you-”  
  
“You. If _you_ were to drug me.”  
  
“ _Fine_ , me. If _I_ were to drug you, I’d have to have a pretty damned good reason for doing so, hm? Betraying your hard earned trust? Causing you to have a near psychotic break in your flat? I’d have to have one _damned_ good reason. Something more valuable to me than your trust, which means this is about something very precious,” Sherlock hesitated, swallowing hard. “The one thing I’ve ever cared about more than myself.”  
  
“And that would be…?” prompted John, raising his eyebrows expectantly.  
  
Sherlock regarded him a bit sadly.

“You, John. I’m trying to save you, before it’s too late.”  
  
John swallowed _._ He doubted that Sherlock, machine that he was, knew what that had sounded like. _The one thing Sherlock has ever cared about more than himself_ : _Me_. John cleared his throat and chose instead to focus on the other nagging part of his monologue. “So, you’ve drugged me because you want to save me?”  
  
“Yes, John. Before you head down a pathway towards a destination from which you cannot return. Your bitterness, your newfound contempt for this insipid Christmas season, your frankly alarming lack of personal hygiene-“  
  
“That’s bloody rich, coming from you.”  
  
“Exactly! John, you are turning into _me_. Well, not me exactly, I doubt you’ll ever have the mental aptitude to compete with my intellect on a _really_ serious level-”  
  
“Sherlock,” sighed John. “your point?”  
  
“My point is that I had to resort to something drastic, something unexpected, to get you to see the error of your ways. Can’t you see, John? Our relationship only worked because you possessed the heart that I so sorely lacked. You _cared_ so deeply for all of the victims and widows and family dogs and orphaned children so that I could press on and continue The Work!”  
  
“So, you’d like to save my heart so that I can… what? Continuing solving cases with you when you miraculously raise from the dead?”  
  
Sherlock groaned dramatically and began to pace about the room. “Just as I would not be Sherlock Holmes without my brilliant mind, you are not John Watson without your bleeding heart.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“Without it you might as well go-“ Sherlock waved a hand.  
  
“Go what?“ John asked. “Go what, Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock stepped towards him and grabbed his shoulders firmly. Again, John could feel the very pressure and weight of him, could see the very details of his stunningly blue irises surrounding his blown pupils. Curious, John thought, that his subconscious had clung onto those tiny details all these years, yet he could never recall them when he was awake.  
  
“The world needs John Watson," said Sherlock emphatically. "You’ve lost your heart, and we need to find it again.”  
  
“Okay, and how exactly do you propose we do that?”  
  
“Not we, you,” Sherlock smirked. “I am here tonight to show you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my lonely fate." His eyes sparkled. "A chance and hope of my own design, John.”   
  
John did not like the sound of this.

“You will be visited,” Sherlock intoned, “by Three Spirits.”

John’s countenance fell. Then he burst into laughter.

“I’m sorry, is- is that the ‘chance and hope’ you mentioned, Sherlock?” John giggled, his voice breaking. “Because you’ve really got to work on your-”

“It is.” Sherlock regarded him calmly, not an ounce of humour in his expression.

John’s his laughter died out as he assumed a sober expression.

“You know what I- no, I think I’d rather not. Can’t we just leave this whole Christmas Carol nonsense to the theatre, Sherlock?”

“Without their visits,” insisted Sherlock, “you cannot hope to avoid the path I tread. The first will arrive tonight at 10 precisely.”

“Oh c’mon,” groaned John. “Couldn’t I just take ’em all at once and have it over, Sherlock?”

“Expect the second on the next hour,” Sherlock continued, buttoning up his coat, “and the third and final upon the next hour, at midnight precisely."  
  
"Hang on," John said. "Didn't Scrooge get three days or something? How come I only get three hours?"  
  
"Time is something of which we do not have an infinite supply, John."  
  
At this, Sherlock inclined his head and turned away with a flourish, the wings of his coat swirling dramatically behind him. His illuminated figure walked slowly towards the door of John's flat, turned the handle, them shut it behind him softly, without so much as a glance back at John, who sat frozen, staring after him, completely baffled.  
  
 _Strange, a ghost needing a door,_ John thought absently, then leapt to his feet.  
  
“Sherlock, no, please! Don’t go. Please, just-“   
  
John threw open the door, and found nothing but the empty stairwell.  
  


* * *


	2. STAVE TWO.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I now know FAR too much about British Army medical officer training, John Watson's canon educational history, and homosexuality laws in the UK. I'm going to empty my brain now while you all fill yours... Cheers! xx

**THE FIRST OF THE THREE SPIRITS.**

John didn’t remember getting into his bed, but even in the absolute darkness, he was positive that’s where he currently was. He was still trying to make sense of the shapeless objects and shadows around him when the chime of his mobile startled him. Strange, he didn’t remember setting an alarm. He fumbled around for it and stared at it blearily: 22:00.  
  
10:00pm? Christ, had he really only slept for a handful of hours? His head felt as though he’d fallen asleep on the tracks at Doncaster. His mobile’s chime had simulated the gentle sensation of a locomotive crushing his skull.  
  
He struggled to piece together the events of last night. Work. Pub. Home. And then…  
  
He sat up. No. Not possible.  That was not possible.  
  
He hadn’t dreamt of Sherlock for years, and he’d certainly never had a dream as… well, theatrical, as that. Apart from a few vaguely risqué dreams he’d had after moving into Baker Street (to which John would  never admit having) this had definitely been the strangest Sherlock dream to-date.   
  
John groaned and rubbed at his temples. “Not good, Sherlock,” he mumbled.  
  
“Well, I’m not Sherlock, am I?” chuckled a voice from the darkness.  
  
John froze. He mentally calculated exactly how quickly, and discreetly, he could draw his Browning from his bedside table. The voice had sounded like it was just beyond the end of his bed and, now that he looked, he could see a faint shadow, or more accurately, the absence of shadows, in one spot in the room. The air appeared faintly tinged with an ethereal blue, just as Sherlock had appeared in his dream.  
  
His dream. Right. Sherlock had mentioned something about threes spirits, redemption, and that John was the only thing in the world he truly cared about… yeah. Definitely a dream then. And based on the appearance of his newest flat-invader, John decided he was probably dreaming still.  Well, John internally sighed,  might as well see what it wants.  


“Are you the next, uh, visitor? I was told to expect?”  


“I am,” replied a singularly disgruntled baritone. Now that he was getting past his shock, John noticed the currently disembodied voice sounded familiar somehow.  


“Who - or I suppose, what - are you?” Watson asked.  


“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” the voice sighed, reciting the words as if reading them off a cue card. Perhaps it was. John wouldn’t have been able to see it in the pitch black of his room anyway.  
  
John had noticed a distinctive Estuary clip to its speech and was slowly narrowing the possibilities of who his new visitor might be, but he needed to hear more to be sure.  


“‘Christmas Past’? So, the distant past or-?” inquired John.  


“No, your past, John,” the voice sounded closer.  
  
“My past?” John rubbed at his eyes and slowly took in the now slightly clearer and vaguely illuminated figure before him. “Wait, Greg? Is that you?”  
  
The translucent form of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade became fully illuminated at his words, and he smiled.  
  
“Surprised you recognise me, mate. How long’s it been, John?”  
  
“Hang on, how are you meant to be my next Spirit? You- well, I suppose as far as I know, you’re not dead.” John hopped out of bed to inspect him closer, suddenly thankful that he’d gone to bed with at least his pants and a vest on. DI Lestrade appeared to John just as he had the last time he saw him, which happened to be Sherlock’s funeral. But as with Sherlock’s dream form, the creases of Lestrade’s face had deepened and he glowed the same luminous blue.  Curious.

“Great deduction, that. I knew Sherlock’d rubbed off on ya!” Lestrade laughed then caught himself, “Well, not ‘rubbed off’- I don’t mean to imply- although, the pool at the office was rather-”  
  
“Yeah, thanks.” John said quickly, changing the subject. “But how are you here? In my flat? Like... that?“ John gestured vaguely, hoping Greg would catch his meaning and he wouldn’t have to use any ridiculous words like “ghost” or “phantom.”  
  
“Well Sherlock told you, didn’t he? Three spirits, chances for redemption, all that. We all volunteered, though I suppose he likes having the same faces back together, even after-”  
  
“Redemption?” John interrupted. “God, what has he been telling you? I don’t  need redemption.”

“Yeah?” Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “Could’ve fooled me, all your sulking about, shutting us all out for years, having rows in the shops with the chip and pins - though I supposed you did that last bit when Sherlock was still with us,” he mused. “C’mon, it’s been 10 years, John, and I wouldn’t have even known where to find you if not for Mycroft’s… well, we’ll call it ‘due diligence’.”  
  
“I know,” John ran a hand through his bed hair. “Sorry, I know. I should’ve-”  
  
“Ah, John. It’s alright. Really. It’s not like we all made an effort either. We all figured you needed-“ he stopped, “Well, it was hard on all of us. Even Anderson! Who would’ve thought?” Lestrade chuckled.  
  
“Right,” John managed stiffly, not sure where this was all going.

Greg sighed. “Look, I’ve been roped into this same as you. And I know neither of us is one for taking orders, especially from The Great Man-Child Himself, but let’s just get on with this, yeah? For Sherlock?“  
  
John let out a breath. He supposed it couldn’t do much harm, considering this was all some sort of dream anyhow.  
  
“Alright. Yeah, alright. What are we meant to be doing?“   
  
“Looking out for your eternal welfare, ‘course.” Greg smiled cheekily.   
  
“Why is everyone suddenly so concerned about my welfare? And for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually in need of redemption!” John griped, addressing that last bit to the rest of the pitch black room.  
  
“Well, he’s made it our concern, hasn’t he?”  
  
“Has he?” John replied indignantly, then paused. “Wait, so, he spoke to you too?”  
  
“At me more like, but yeah. You know what he’s like. Told me you needed help, so I came.” Greg gave him a crooked smile. “C’mon John. There are things he wants you to see.” He offered his hand.  
  
John eyed it warily. He took it, finding it surprisingly warm and sturdy for a dream ghost. Then, to his surprise, his own body began to glow with a similar ghostly sheen. He looked at Lestrade for some sort of explanation.  
  
“Neat trick, isn’t it?” Lestrade said mischievously.  
  
“It’s… brilliant,“ John murmured softly, gaping at his newly transfigured form. “Fantastic.”  
  
“I can see why he liked you doing that,” Lestrade grinned.  
  
John was still transfixed by his newly luminous hands, holding them up and twisting them about to get a closer look. “So, where are we off to then?” he muttered distractedly.  
  
“You’ll see,” Lestrade smiled knowingly. “God, it’s fun being the one with all the answers for once.”  
  
Without warning, John’s bedroom was swallowed up by a blinding white light and John squeezed his eyes tightly shut.  
  


* * *

  
When he opened them again, he found himself and Lestrade in entirely new surroundings.  
  
John blinked once, then twice, trying to rid himself of the black hole currently obscuring the centre of his vision. The room smelled of cheap beer, Richmond fags, and unwashed rugby lads. The scent wafted over John and when he opened his eyes, his mouth fell open as took in the sight before him.  
  
“What do you see, John?” Lestrade’s voice sounded far away.  
  
“My… my mate Jim’s old flat in Chelmsford,” John said disbelievingly. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then let it out again. He peaked an eye open.  
  
Nope. The room was still there, exactly as it had been almost 35 years ago.  
  
John was currently standing in the bedroom of their shabby little flat, looking at his old cluttered desk on the far wall, which was stuffed between a single bed (Jim’s) and a small sofa (John’s). The bed was piled high with books, clothes, tapes with hand written labels, a single shoe, and what appeared to the remains of an apple. The sofa supplied a stark contrast: a neatly folded blanket at one end, a single thin pillow placed just-so at the other, and the heels of several pairs of well-worn boots peaking out from underneath.  
  
Lestrade cleared his throat and John was suddenly aware that he’d been standing, completely silent, mouth open, for a full minute at least. He closed his mouth quickly, swallowed roughly around his now dry throat, then attempted to explain to Lestrade as best he could.  
  
“Jim- he, uh, took me in after my dad and I had it out,“ John explained distractedly, walking around the room and waving his hands straight through various objects as he tried to pick them up. “He came home one night, totally pissed of course, and he accused me of being- or, well- he said some things, then I said some things, and then I was out. I still went to KEGS, of course, kept my grades up, graduated. And Jim even got me in as an orderly at Broomfield so I could pay my own way. Started my whole medical career, that.”  
  
John looked over at Lestrade, who still glowing like Bluebell the bloody rabbit. He seemed completely out of place with the rest of the room, and almost blurred around the edges. It reminded John of those silly aquarium backgrounds his boss insisted on using during their virtual quarterly check-ins.  


“So you moved out, and didn’t see your dad again? Oh that’s rough, mate. Sorry.” Lestrade chewed his lip for a moment. “What about your sister? Harry, was it?”

“Yeah, Harry,” John nodded, then turned back to examine the room. He spied a small, green spring taped above the doorway, and smiled reflexively.  
  
Just when John was getting somewhat comfortable with this whole having-visions-of-your-past thing, the door flung open and a young man wearing scrubs plodded in, tossed his hefty school bag on the floor, before throwing himself dramatically across on the sofa, face first.  
  
John’s jaw dropped open again. It was likely to fall off at this rate.  
  
“That… that’s me!” cried John.  
  
“Jo-ohn!” a girl’s sing-song voice called from the other room.  
  
The young man started at the sound, then stared at the door. A young teen girl came bounding in, grinning ear-to-ear. She plopped down on the sofa with a bounce then threw her arms around the young man’s neck.  


“I’ve come to bring you home, John!” said the girl, bending down a bit to hug the boy close. She had a good 3 inches of height on him, despite appearing to be several years his junior.  


“Harry! What the hell are you doing here?” He stared at her in amazement. Then he processed what she’d said, and asked, “Wait, home? What about…“  
  
“Trust me, Dad’s been  so much better than he used to be. He hasn’t had a single drink in ages,” she promised. “Anyway, I told him the only thing I wanted for Christmas was for you to come home and spend it with me, and last night he finally said yes!” cried Harry excitedly, hugging her brother tightly. “And you are never going to leave again, not if I have anything to say about it.”  
  
“Harry,” began Young John. “I know you’d like me home but I just… I can’t. I won’t. Not after what he said.”  
  
“I gave him a good talking to about that,” the girl said, adopting a very stern look.  
  
Young John laughed. “I bet you did. He didn’t come after you or anything-?“  
  
Harry sighed, and leaned back, propping her legs up on his lap. “No, he doesn’t know about me yet. And I doubt I’ll ever tell him now, given what he’s done to you.”  
  
“Right. Well, I’m sorry Harry but like I said, I don’t want to go home. I’m happy here, or at least better than I was. I can finally be myself here, with Jim. It’s all… fine.”  
  
“Are you two…?” Harry gave him a sly look.  
  
“No!” Young John shoved her playfully. “I’m still going with Lisa from Chem. Besides, it’s not like that, me and Jim. Though, I’m sure Dad thinks it is,” he sighed. “God knows what he’s thinking.“  
  
Harry looked at him thoughtfully. “Well, since you’re not going to come home, let’s have Christmas together here!”  
  
“Here?” Young John looked around at the mess. “You sure? Nothing here is exactly family-friendly or brimming with Christmas cheer.”  
  
“It’s perfect!” Harry hugged Young John tightly and nuzzled her face into his neck. “You’re my big brother. Wherever you are is a perfect Christmas.”  
  
Young John grinned and hugged her back. “Alright then, if you’re sure.”  
  
“Yes!” Harry bounced excitedly and clapped her hands. “Okay, just let me run home to grab your present and I’ll be right back!!”  
  
She leapt off the sofa, then turned back and gave John a big kiss on the cheek before running out the door, leaving Young John beaming as he hurriedly tidied up the room.  
  
Lestrade chuckled. “You two were rather close.”  
  
John jolted out of his vision. He’d totally forgotten Greg was standing barely a metre away from him this whole time.  


“Yeah, we were, weren’t we?” John said absently.  
  
“How long’s it been since you two spoke?”  
  
“Oh, years, years,” replied John off-handedly. “I mean, really spoke. She still sends texts, occasional post cards, and the like.”  
  
“Still drinking?” asked Lestrade.  
  
“Far as I know. She made an effort for a bit, but after Clara, well…” John trailed off. “She tries to call now and again. Checking up on me, I suppose.“  
  
“Well, maybe she’s finally come ‘round and she wants to reconnect?” Lestrade offered hopefully.  
  
“Not likely,” John laughed bitterly. “She takes more after our father. Probably just wants money, or feels some sort of family obligation around the holidays. She wouldn’t want to talk to me now anyway.”  John had meant for that last bit to sound dismissive, but his whole expression had softened and his eyes were looking a bit damp around the edges.  
  
“Right,” Lestrade coughed. “Well, shall we move on then?”  
  
John sniffed once and nodded. “Lead the way.”  
  


* * *

  
Another blinding flash of light ripped through his vision and John was struggling once again to regain his sight, but he found he didn't need it. The new smell that greeted him was absolutely unmistakable.  
  
Antiseptic, formaldehyde, floor polish, cut grass, and just a hint of gun powder. John knew exactly where he was.  
  
“Where are we now, John? D’you know it?” Lestrade’s voice echoed through the haze.

“Know it?” John blinked, looking around disbelievingly. “ _Know_ it? Of course I do, it’s The bloody RMA! I- I was trained here!”

John and Lestrade stood smack in the centre of a medical training classroom at RMA Sandhurst. Long metal tables on casters and rolling office chairs were all lined up in neat rows, facing an enormous whiteboard at one end of the room. John began to turn in a slow circle, taking in his old lab with a mix of incredulity and awe. His gaze fell upon a stern-looking middle-aged Captain, dressed in full RAMC attire, sitting quite casually at the end of the room, sorting papers.

“My god, it’s Captain Turner!”

Captain Turner laid down his pen and looked up at the clock: 1900 on the dot. He smiled as he stood, adjusting his uniform, then he called towards the door in a commanding yet jovial voice: _  
_

“Dettingen Company! Cadets! Line up!” he barked, as was his customary manner of speech. An eager group of fresh-faced officers-in-training hurried into the room and stood at attention in neat rows. Turner looked at each of them as they came in, then he glanced back towards the door. His mouth quirk up at the corner, then shouted again, “Watson! Wilkins!”

Young Cadet Watson came rushing through the door at a near-run, followed close behind by a fellow cadet.

“Dick Wilkins!” John whispered to Lestrade, as though his former Captain might hear him. “My god, there he is! He was very attached to me, poor sod.”  
  
Lestrade raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t comment.  
  
“Sorry, sir,” young Watson saluted. “The SNCOs said we’d completed our training, sir. We were heading back to the barracks, to prep for tomorrow’s Sovereign’s Parade, sir.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” Turner waved a hand, ushering them to join their fellow cadets. “You have indeed completed your training here. Congratulations, lads!” Captain Turner’s eyes sparkled. “But we’re not quite done with you lot yet. Sergeant!”  
  
Their platoon’s colour sergeant, Sergeant Reynolds, marched in and saluted Captain Turner, then did an about-face and observed his cadets with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Alright, gents,” said Captain Turner. “As I said, no more training. You have all performed admirably and Sergeant Reynolds and I will be proud to present you all at the passing out parade tomorrow. As for tonight… well, we decided to show you new lads how we do things in Her Majesty’s Army!” Turner grinned and set the room in motion with a sharp clap of his hands. _  
_

The room became a flurry of activity as the Sergeant shouted out orders. A pair of cadets were set into the hall while the rest rolled the chairs, tables, and desks to the perimeter of the room. The hallway cadets quickly returned with a small, sparsely decorated, and obviously fake, Christmas tree which they drug to the centre of the room while Sergeant Reynolds set an old boombox on a chair in the corner.  
  
“Alright lads,” said the Captain. “We’ve got a little Christmas tradition ‘round here. You’re going to take whatever keepsakes you’ve brought with you from home - your sweetheart’s photo, your kiddie’s drawing- doesn’t matter. You take it and you tuck it into that tree somewhere. Then, when you’re all celebrating tonight with your new family, you can look over at that tree and remember everything that you’ll be fighting for when you’re out there, besides your Queen and Country, of course.”  
  
A couple quiet snickers broke out. Captain Turner cleared his throat sharply and the snickers vanished.

He raised an eyebrow, then continued, “I know, I know, it’s all a bit corny. But it’s tradition. And if there’s one thing we’re wont to do around here, it’s honour our traditions. And frankly,” A conflicted look passed across his face for a moment, but he pressed on. “This is probably the first and the last Christmas you’ll all have together.” He paused for a moment, letting that sink in. Then he slapped his hands together. “Alright! Enough blabbering. Go on and make your contributions so we can start the festivities.”  
  
The cadets began rummaging through their pockets and then one-by-one made their way to the tree to nestle their treasures among the plastic branches. Young Watson lowered his gaze and feigned a search of his pockets, and then, coming up short, shrugged shyly at Wilkins. Wilkins smiled and shrugged back, before jogging up to place a photo of his parents on the tree.  
  
During this small ceremony, someone had plugged in the light strand on the tree, so now all of the wives, girlfriends, parents, children, and siblings were smiling warmly out at their audience, glowing under the lights of the tree. As the last cadet added his contribution, the cadets looked to their Captain for further instructions.  
  
“There now! Now that’s done… let the celebrations begin!” cried Turner.

The Sergeant pressed play on the boombox and it began garbling out various renditions of Christmas carols. The older lads, at their Sergeant’s order, began carrying in trays of hot food and various contraband, including some dangerous looking punch. Everyone began chattering excitedly amongst themselves as they ate and drank their fill. Some lads even gathered together around the tree, trying to match the photo to their mates, while other told animated stories of the folks they’d be leaving back home. As the drinks settled in, the less-than-sober cadets even put on a show of dancing around the room, singing loudly, and badly, along to their favourite Christmas tunes.  
  
John took in the whole scene with a look of pure awe. As the cadets buzzed around the room, John tried to point out as many as he could to an increasingly amused Lestrade.  
  
“That’s Jordy, there. He could make even the Captain laugh during a drill. Oh! and there’s Craig. God, could that man sing. We could never get him to stop, not that we really made an effort. Oh wow! And Tom! His wife back home would send him the best packages, absolutely chock full of sweets. Her shortbread biscuits are still my favourite-”

And on and on it went, John beaming all the way. When the wall clock finally struck 0000, the festivities quickly died down and the cadets dutifully straightened and cleaned the room, then collected their keepsakes from the tree before heading for the door.  
  
“Goodnight, lads,” yawned Turner, a bit rosy in the cheeks from drink. “And a Merry Christmas to you!”  
  
“Merry Christmas, sir!” sounded the cadets in unison.  
 _  
_The scene began to dim and fade away as the cadets shuffled out of the room, and in the blink of an eye John found himself back in his darkened bedroom once more. He was still buzzing with excitement from seeing his old platoon, just as they had been all those years ago. He wondered why he hadn’t thought to ask after any them once he came home. Then again, he was still slightly embarrassed about the injuries he’d sustained, since his team had been the ones to treat him in the field, and the fact that his discharge occurred after only 3 years of active service. Still, he should’ve asked around. He thought maybe he still could whenever he woke up, but then he realised didn’t even know who, if any of them, was still alive. _  
_  
“Seems a bit silly, I think,” Lestrade wondered aloud, interrupting his thoughts. “Having all those hardened military chaps runnin’ around like kids on Christmas morning.” He glanced sideways at John.  
  
“‘Silly’?” John balked. He couldn’t believe that Lestrade, of all people, didn’t understand. He could feel the anger rising up the back of his neck as he clenched his jaw and spoke very carefully, trying to keep his temper in check. “Listen, your unit’s your only family when you’re out there. It’s just you, and your mates, and time. Sure, the infantry’s outside, givin’ the enemy what-for, but my team, _my_ team, was facing a greater enemy. _The_ Great Enemy. So while our boys were out there getting blown to bits for Queen and Country, we were all running about in some dusty tent in the middle of nowhere, fighting over souls with God! But yeah, you’re right, it was all just ‘silliness.’ God forbid we allow ourselves to have any fun!” John had lost the battle with his temper somewhere around the end there, but he found he really didn’t care.  
  
“Yeah,” Lestrade snarked back, drawing out the syllable. “Yeah, god forbid _you_ let yourself have any fun, John,” he smirked.  
  
John blinked. He couldn’t be sure right then whether he was angrier with Lestrade for riling him up, _on purpose_ , apparently for the sake of Sherlock’s insane Christmas scheme, or whether he was angrier with himself. Because it was true; John hadn’t let himself have fun, not in years. Not since Sherlock. It hadn’t seemed right somehow, to smile and laugh and be downright jolly this time of year when his friend, his best friend in the whole bloody world, wasn’t there to enjoy it with him.  
  
Lestrade’s brow furrowed as he watched John’s expression waver. He nudged his shoulder, gently coaxing him away from his thoughts.  
  
“C’mon, just one more and then you’re done with me.”  
  
John nodded.  
  


* * *

 _  
_John was ready for it this time. He covered his eyes before the light even breached the edges of his vision and he inhaled deeply as a new smell wafted into the space.  
  
Dirt. Petrol. Antiseptic. Exhaust. And something... metallic.  
  
A low, white sheetmetal building, flying a white flag with a red cross, appeared in front of them. Several military vehicles, which bore the same red cross on their boots, were parked out front on the gravel-covered dirt. Around the corner, a wide metal staircase jutted from the side of the building. A young medical officer was perched on one of the lower steps, hunched over, reading a hand-written note.

“No, no, just _no_ ,” John shook his head violently, taking a few involuntary steps backward. “We are not doing this, not this one. Not- _no_.” John pointed at Lestrade sternly.

“Whoa, whoa, hang on a sec. I don’t even know what this is.”  
  
“Don’t you? I find that hard to believe.“ John smirked, his eyes fierce and his lips drawn taught.  
 _  
_“No, I don’t,” Lestrade said firmly, holding up his hands. “Honest. Sherlock, he knew. He said this one would be your last. I was to do Harry, Sandhurst, and Camp Bastion.”  
  
John huffed, shaking his head again as he threw his hands in the air. _  
  
_“HOW does he know? How does he ALWAYS know?” He twisted both hands in his hair and began pacing.

“Look, John, mate, I know. Even for guys like you and me, who’ve seen death loads of times, it’s always going to be a totally shit time. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, not even the ex-wife.”  
  
John’s head snapped towards him. “Is that what you think this is, hm? Me watching someone die?”  
  
“Well, it _is_ Afghanistan, so I just thought…“ Lestrade shrugged.  
  
“Well, it’s not. It’s… not that.” John fiddled with the hem of his shirt.  
  
“Okay, well…” Lestrade fumbled around for words. “Then, I don’t know how I can help.”  
  
“Just, stop this! This whole thing. I don’t want you to- I don’t want _anyone_ to-“ John paused his frantic pacing and looked up. “Okay, this is my dream, right? So I get a say, don’t I?”  
  
“Your… dream?” Lestrade furrowed his brow, throwing John a concerned look. “John, what exactly do you think is hap-”  
  
“I thought I’d find you out here,” a low baritone interrupted from over John's shoulder.  
  
“Oh, god,” John gasped at the sound, then bit his lip, hard, nearly breaking the skin. His eyes were rapidly filling with tears as forced himself to turn around and look at the man who had just appeared behind them. He was gazing softly at the man on the stairs with an enigmatic smile, as he walked up the few steps to join him.

“You shouldn’t be back here, with me. People will talk,” the man on the steps said sternly, carefully folding up his note.  
  
“People are already talking, John.”The other man smirked.  
  
“Yeah, and they’ll keep bloody talking if you keep sending me things like this and calling me John, _Major_ Sholto.”  
  
“Oh, you know how I love when you use my title,” Major Sholto said slyly.  
  
Captain Watson scoffed. “Berk.” He nudged a shoulder into the other man, smiling shyly up at him.  
  
“So, what do you think, then?” Major Sholto nodded towards the note. “Does that put me on your ‘nice’ or ‘naughty’ list?”  
  
“I think…” Watson toyed with the edges of the paper, then shoved the note in his pocket. “I think if anyone found this, we’d both be shipped back to London before New Year.”  
  
“Would that be so terrible?”  
  
John shot him a look. Sholto’s eyes were round and soft, his gaze earnest.  
  
“Being discharged?” Watson considered for a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe not. Butwhat then? I could never get a job back home. What would I say to them? ‘Hi, yes, I spent 2 glorious years in Her Majesty’s service, then got sacked for being a’ - well, whatever I am.” Watson shifted his knee absently, pressing it against Sholto’s thigh.  
  
“You’re you, John.” Major Sholto looked around warily, then moved his hand discreetly to Watson's knee, squeezing softly.  
  
Watson closed his eyes and visibly relaxed a bit, relishing the contact. Then he brushed his hand away. “No, don’t. Not here.”  
  
“What? I can’t comfort a medical officer under my command after a challenging surgery?”  
  
“Is that all you’re doing?” Watson asked, voice tinged with hope.  
  
“No,” Sholto’s eyes crinkled.  
  
“Then, no. You can’t. _We_ can’t.” Watson put his head in his hands.  
  
Sholto placed a warm hand on Watson’s back, tracing his shoulder blade with his thumb. “It will all be alright, John. We’ll pull through.”  
  
Watson shook his head dejectedly, hopelessness seeping into his voice. “How can we? How could we possibly pull through? I… I can’t keep doing this. This in-between, half-arsed attempt at- I don’t even know what to call it!”  
  
“Love?” Sholto offered, raising en eyebrow.  
  
Watson bit his lip. “Maybe, eventually. I mean, this has all been so fast. Maybe, once we're out- as in, 'out' of the RAMC not- well, anyway, maybe then we could…”  
  
“No, John.” Sholto's eyes were brimming with unshed tears. “I can’t wait until then. Who knows how long that will be? Things are changing, right now. There are people, people like us, back home who’re fighting for that change, and we’ve got to fight too.”  
  
“I know, James- _Major_ \- it’s just…” John huffed, mentally berated himself slipping. “We can’t fight this thing from the inside out. There are still rules, _laws_ about this sort of thing.”  
  
“The laws have changed, John. It’s been years since anyone was jailed, much less killed, over it.”  
  
“Oh, and thank god for that!” John exclaimed bitterly. “Now, instead of dying or going to prison, we’ll _only_ lose our whole bloody livelihoods! No, Major, I won’t do it. We cannot destroy our entire lives over some- some overseas dalliance!”  
  
Sholto straighten up, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “Is that all this is to you? A dalliance?”  
  
John grimaced. “No, no, I didn’t mean- GOD, I’m just not good at this! I’ve never- I mean, you’re the first-”  
  
Sholto snorted a laugh. “I know. It was rather obvious.”  
  
John winced, then groaned. “Oh god, was I absolutely terrible?”  
  
“It was very endearing,” Sholto reassured him, nudging him fondly.  
  
Watson lifted his head and met his eyes with a sober look. “This isn’t just a dalliance. Not for me, anyway. But, we can’t keep it up, not here. There’s too much at stake.”   
  
Sholto regarded Watson silently for a moment, his expression unreadable, then he stood. “I understand.”  
  
Watson eyed him closely, looking for any sign of remorse or misgivings. When he found none, he followed suit and rose to his feet. “Right. So, we’ll just… stop, then.”  
  
“Quite,” Sholto said stiffly, then turned towards Watson and stuck out his hand. “Goodbye, John.”  
  
John swallowed, which made his chin quiver, much to his embarrassment. Then he slowly reached out and took Sholto's hand in his. “Goodbye, James.”  
  
Major Sholto’s lip trembled at the sound of his name on Watson's lips. They shook once, then squeezed each other’s hands for a moment longer, their thumbs tracing circles on the backs of their hands. Then, as if by some unspoken command, released their hands in unison.  
  
Major Sholto cleared his throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow at 0600 after rounds then, Watson.”  
  
Captain Watson straightened to attention. “Yes, sir.”  
  
Major Sholto nodded, then walked down the stairs and disappeared around the corner.  
  
Captain Watson stood frozen for another few moments, then collapsed back onto the stairs. His face was blank, entirely devoid of any emotion, as he held it between his hands. Then he gasped loudly and bit his fist, choking back a sob. He squeezed his eyes shut, dampness threatening to spill over at the corners. He sat like this for a few moments, completely motionless apart from his shoulders, which shook violently with each heaving breath. After some time, he inhaled deeply thru his now-congested nose and stood up. Captain Watson sniffed once, brushed off his trousers, straightened his cap, then assumed the taut expression of a diligent soldier. He marched down the steps, then vanished.  
  


* * *

  
John wasn’t sure when he’d fallen to his knees, but they were smarting something fierce as hot tears streamed down his face. He sat back on his heels, a hand hovering unsteadily over his mouth, the other hand outstretched vaguely towards where his younger self had disappeared.  
  
“I… I can’t do any more of this.” John’s voice shook as he choked out the words. “I can’t, I’m not… strong enough.” His shoulder drooped and his hands laid limp at his sides.  
  
Lestrade kneeled down and put a hand on his shoulder, his determined gaze twinged with sorrow. “You shouldn’t _have_ _to_ _be_ this strong. But you are, John. You _really_ are. One of the strongest men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.”  
  
John’s mouth twisted as he fought back another sob. “How much did you-?”  
  
“Not a lot honestly, but enough. I can’t exactly see the things that you can, but I sorta gathered what happened from lookin’ atcha.” Lestrade tried to offer him a reassuring smile, but only managed to tug up one corner of his mouth. “It’s all fine, John. Really. I’d sort of figured you were- you know. At least for Sherlock.”  
  
John huffed, wiping at his tear-stained face with his sleeve. “Sherlock and I, we never… I mean, I wanted- but-” John shook his head.  
  
Lestrade considered this new bit of information for a moment, then struggled out a string of halting reassurances. “John. I hope you know you're always gonna be my mate. No matter who... or what is going on in your life. So, if you’d like to talk about… that… I’m happy to give it go. I mean, I’m not exactly an expert on... these sorts of things, but-”  
  
”No, no, don’t. Just… just leave it.” John stared vacantly at the floor, all of the energy he’d gleaned from the Sandhurst vision had clearly been sapped out of him.  
  
“Alright, well… get some rest, John,” Lestrade clapped a hand on his shoulder, then stood. “Your next Ghost’ll be here before you know it.”  
  
“Great, thanks.” John snarked reflexively, his sarcastic tone effectively snuffing out their conversation. John winced internally, chiding himself for falling back into bad habits. “But no, I mean, really. Thanks, Greg. It’s been… interesting.”  
  
“Isn’t it always with him?” Lestrade shot him a wry look, then started towards John’s bedroom door. “I’ll see you when you’re done, John.”  
  
“Mhm,” was all John managed before collapsing onto his pillows, his exhausted mind trying to work out what exactly Lestrade had meant by that. _Done with what? Dreaming?_ John groaned and shut his eyes. As he drifted off, he silently prayed that his brain would see fit to release him from this torment, preferably sooner rather than later.  
  


* * *


	3. STAVE THREE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay on this chapter! It was surprisingly difficult to write and much more emotional than I initially intended. Hope you enjoy it! <3

**THE SECOND OF THE THREE SPIRITS.**

Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore and sitting up in bed to wrangle his thoughts together, John hardly registered his mobile’s chime persistently sounding 23:00. _God, what a bloody awful dream_ , he thought absently, rubbing at his face then enjoying a much-needed stretch. His head was pounding something fierce and he was very grateful for the glass of water on his bedside table.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small patch of light on the floor, that seemed to be streaming out from under his bedroom door. He frowned at it. Strange, he didn’t remember leaving the kitchen light on. John closed his eyes and tried to remember the events of last night. He couldn’t for the life of him remember when he’d gotten into bed, apart from after his visit from Greg Lestrade, but that had all been just a continuation of his insane dream.

Apparently his subconscious had fancied a holiday-themed reboot of his classic dream fodder: “John Watson’s Greatest Cock-Ups: The Early Days.” John groaned audibly as he attempted to corral the flood of memories back into their designated lock boxes in the corners of his mind. Over the years, John had developed his own form of a Mind Palace, though it was less of a “palace” and more of a “Mind Penitentiary.” His Daily Thoughts and bits of Mindless Trivia were allowed to roam the halls freely, but his Coping Mechanisms were charged with barricading the doors to the padded cells that contained his Intrusive Thoughts and Traumatic Memories. Clearly, his Coping Mechanisms needed a bit of refresher training down at the pub.

John picked up his mobile to seek out a distraction when a thought struck him. Why on Earth had his alarm gone off at 11 in the evening? He certainly hadn’t set it that way. He unlocked his screen and thumbed over to the clock app, where it showed that, in addition to his regular work alarm, he had an additional 3 alarms set. The ones listed for 22:00 and 23:00 were greyed out, as if they had already gone off, and the last one, still lit up, was set for 00:00. Each of alarms were simply labelled, “one,” “two,” and “three,” respectively.

 _One, two, three. 10, 11, 12._ _Three alarms. Three…_

John scrunched his face up in frustration. The number “three” seemed vitally important to him, but he couldn’t seem to piece together _why_ it was so important. His thoughts swirled around the word, trying to root out the cause of his growing sense of deja vu and dread.

_You will be visited…_

_by three spirits._

John’s eyes shot open.

_Bollocks. I must still be dreaming._

He took a deep breath. _Okay, okay, that’s alright, just relax. There’s only one thing to do then: Try to wake up._

John threw back the covers and hopped out of bed. He shook out his arms, stretched his neck, and bounced on his heels a few times to get his blood flowing.

_Alright, how do you wake yourself up from a dream? Give yourself a fright? A pinch on the bum?_

“C’mon, Watson,” he muttered. “Think.”

As he paced the few steps back and forth in front of his bed, his ears picked up the faint sound of clattering of silverware in the kitchen. John stiffened, halting his movements and listening. Total silence. Moving cautiously, he slid on his slippers and crept towards his bedroom door, careful not to put his weight on the handful of particularly noisy floorboards on the way. Then he painstakingly lifted his dressing gown off the hook on the back of the door and slipped it on.

John reached out to open the door, but the moment his hand was on the handle, the sound of the kettle clicking off and the clatter cups being pulled from cupboards reached his ears and he stopped, confused. Was his next spirit helping themselves to his tea?

 _Surely not,_ John thought, _ghosts don’t drink tea._

He then quickly reminded himself that, since this was all a dream, the rules of ghost-lore probably didn’t apply here. And furthermore, his mind continued, ghost-lore actually didn’t matter at all because ghosts weren’t, strictly speaking, real. He sighed and rubbed at his brow, equally exasperated with and resigned to the insane and illogical events of his dream world. Then he straightened up, steeled himself, and opened his bedroom door.

Now, military-types like Captain John Watson always prided themselves on their preparedness and adaptability, and John was no exception. Once he was fully-trained and out in the field, John found he could go from a friendly game of pitch-and-toss, to manslaughter, then back again with unsettling ease. While living with Sherlock, John discovered he could walk into their kitchen and be equally likely to find a severed arm on the table, Sherlock conducting unknown experiments on his pants ( _it’s for a case, John!_ ) or, most shockingly, a clean table. In response to any of these circumstances, John’s reaction was always the same: make a quick cuppa, if physically possible, then calmly ascend the stairs to his room while imagining all the ways he could commit a murder that even Sherlock wouldn’t be able to deduce, mostly because he’d be the one murdered.

With all this experience dealing with the unexpected, John fancied himself perfectly ready for anything he might find currently residing in his kitchen, and he supposed nothing between a baby and nuclear testing site would have astonished him very much.

What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was the entirely unremarkable yet strangely familiar sight that greeted him: a small elderly woman, wearing a simple floral dress, fussing about his kitchen.

John had seen this woman many a time, in his former kitchen from his former life, exactly as she was now. Well, maybe not _exactly_ as she was was now. Her time-honoured warm and motherly expression that John remembered so fondly was instead twisted into a severe frown, and her customarily soft and breezy nature was in direct opposition with the way she was semi-violently setting his table with store-bought biscuits and a fresh pot of Yorkshire Gold. She pulled several cups and saucers from the cupboard, then banged them down on the table with such force that John was surprised (and relieved) that they didn’t shatter on impact.

As John stepped gingerly into the room, he briefly entertained the idea that he might be the ghost instead of her, because his visitor seemed absolutely intent on refusing to acknowledge his presence in any meaningful way. She simply went about her work, pouring out the tea she had expertly made, filling one cup, then the next, then splashing a bit of milk in each. She added a teaspoon of sugar to the cup nearest her, then refilled the teaspoon and had it poised right over the second cup, when she paused.

“Oh no. You don’t take it, do you?” she said blankly, still not looking at him.

“Uh… well, no,” was all John could manage.

“You forget a little thing like that,” she paused, turning the cups absently in their saucers. “You forget _lots_ of little things, it seems.”

John wasn’t sure what to make of that. He’d just opened his mouth to ask what she’d meant by that when she pressed on.

“Look, I’m not your mother, I’ve no right to expect it, but just one phone call, John! Just one phone call would have done!”

“I know-”

“After all we went through!” she cried.

“Yes, I know,” John repeatedly lamely, “I know. I am sorry, Mrs. Hudson.”

Her expression softened. “Look, I understand how difficult it was for you after… after…” she trailed off.

She slid his cup towards him, which he accepted gratefully, then took a sip out of her own. “Anyway dear, I thought you might need a nice, strong cuppa after all that mess with your commander.”

John sputtered, nearly choking on his tea. “How did you-?”

“Oh, don’t worry, dear. We all knew. I mean, you and Sherlock,” she smiled suggestively at him, “You two were so… well, live and let live, that’s my motto.“

John cleared his throat,. “Right, so you’re the next, then? The next, I dunno, visitor?”

“Yes! Sherlock told me I’m to say I’m the ‘Ghost of Christmas Present.’ Very dramatic, that.”

“Well, he was always a drama queen.”

“Too right! Very emotional, and he took out everything on my poor flat. I kept telling him if he was any good as a detective, I wouldn’t need a new mantel! Had to charge him for the walls too, _and_ a new fridge. The _mess_ he left in it. Really, I should’ve called a bomb squad to sort it all out.”

John snorted a laugh at the unexpected memory of their old fridge, full of jars of pickled eyeballs and severed fingers mingled together with his preserves and spreads. It was the first time he had genuinely been amused by a memory of Sherlock in years, with no trace of his usual grief or regret muddying the waters. John looked up to find Mrs. Hudson smiling fondly at him, her cheeks turning pink under the yellow kitchen light.

John frowned. “Hang on, you’re not-“ He looked all around her, changing his angle several times to be sure. “I mean, well, you’re not… glowing.”

“Well, you don’t look like a peach either after all these years, but I wouldn’t be rude enough to say so!”

“No, no, I mean, Sherlock and the Inspector, they were both… glowing. With this weird, blue…” John made a vague gesture and trailed off.

“Oh dear, he’s really done a number you, hasn’t he?” She shook her head. “I _told_ him not give you too much or you’d have your head in the toilets by the time you got to me.”

“‘Too much’? Of whatever he drugged me with, you mean? So, you knew-”

“Oh my! Look at that, we’re late already,” she exclaimed suddenly, looking at her watch. She rummaged about in her alarmingly large handbag for a moment, then extracted a small device and placed it on the table. “Best get on with it. I hope the Inspector’s already briefed you on the particulars, because I can’t possibly relay all that information Sherlock was doling out to us.”

“Well, as far as I know,” he said absently, preoccupied with analysing the device, which looked like a very high-tech, and expensive, film projector, “it’s meant to be three visitors, you’re the second, and generally you’re all tasked with saving me from ending up a miserable old sod.”

“Well, he used a few choicer words but yes, that’s the gist.”

Mrs. Hudson pulled out a small remote from inside her blouse (John didn’t want to think about where that came from) then aimed it at the blank kitchen wall and clicked one of the small buttons.

Nothing happened.

She blinked, confused, then clicked again.

Nothing continued to happen.

She mashed the button three or four more times then looked at it accusingly.

“Oh, this blasted technology! I _told_ him not to give me this one for this very reason. I wanted to do Christmas Past, but he insisted the Inspector had to do that one.”

She started banging the remote on the corner of the table, barely missing her fingers in the process. John made an abortive reach for the remote, and then the device suddenly powered on and a small rectangle of blue light appeared on the formerly blank kitchen wall.

“Ah, there we go!” She smiled triumphantly. “Percussive maintenance, that’s what these things need. Give it a good whack and it’s good to go. Much like my ex-husband, come to think of it. He could be sound asleep and then-”

“Alright, well!” John said quickly, desperately trying _not_ to imagine where the rest of that sentence was going. “Where are we off to then?”

“Well, Christmas Present, of course! Or rather, since it’s Sherlock - you know how he likes to control things - well, he decided to-“ Mrs. Hudson’s pocket buzzed suddenly and she glared at it in mild annoyance. “Anyway dear, you’ll see in just a moment.” _  
  
_

* * *

As Mrs. Hudson fussed with the projection device, consulting her phone several times in the process, John stared at the dim rectangular glow of the projector on his kitchen wall and a small chuckle rose from his throat.  
  
Mrs. Hudson looked up. “What is it, dear?”  
  
“I dunno, this all just seems a lot less…” John grasped around his mind for an appropriate word. “Well, ‘magical,’ I suppose?”  
  
“That’s my probably doing, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Hudson admitted. “Sherlock wanted me to re-up your dose of that dreadful drug again, with the tea, but I told him absolutely not! My husband may have been a drug dealer, but unlike him and Sherlock Holmes, I refuse to drug people against their will.”  
  
“Well, I suppose thanks are in order then.”  
  
He set down his empty cup, which Mrs. Hudson immediately refiled while John eyed the selection of biscuits. He waffled a bit, but ultimately decided on a chocolate hob nob rather a ginger nut.  
  
“You’re very welcome, John. Although, come to think of it, I’m not too sure about those biscuits,” Mrs. Hudson said, eyeing them suspiciously.  
  
John paused, mid-bite, then carefully extracted half a hob nob from his mouth and placed it gingerly on his plate. Even if it was only a dream biscuit, he decided it was best not to tempt fate.  
  
“It might be nothing, but he was very persistent that I buy these exact ones - with my own money, mind you - right down to telling me which shop to go to. I didn’t even think he knew biscuits can come from a shop.”  
  
“Yeah, unless he was solving a biscuit-themed murder, I doubt he thought it was ‘relevant.’”  
  
Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue. “Drugging biscuits and tea, absolutely shameful. I mean, imagine, thinking it’s perfectly alright to give your own life-partner _drugs,_ against his will!”  
  
“Okay, again, Mrs. Hudson, we were _not_ -”

A soft voice emanating from the projector cut off John’s objection.

“I just don’t know why you bother to keep inviting him, love. He’s never going to come.”  
  
“Oh, maybe one day he will, Sarah. I haven’t given up on him just yet!” replied a familiar voice.  
  
While they chatted about Sherlock’s questionable life choices, the projector had begun streaming what appeared to be a hidden camera feed. Thanks to his military training and Sherlock’s complete lack of boundaries, John was familiar with the grainy, partially obscured imagery that private CCTV streams usually possessed. The camera looked like it was nestled on a bookshelf in a cosy and festively-decorated little sitting room, where every available seat was currently occupied by 7 or 8 people all dressed in holiday attire. _A Christmas party,_ John correctly surmised. The guests all seemed in good spirits, laughing and chatting with drinks in hand, and they were all sitting with the slight discomfort of someone who’s enjoyed a bit too much holiday feasting.  
  
John leaned forward a bit to inspect the projection closer and recognised the back of Mike Stamford’s head, which he’d seen many a time bent over a microscope in their skills labs at Bart’s, and bent over many a toilet at the pub. He also spotted the exquisite profile of a lovely young blonde, who was pressed up against Mike on the sofa. Presumably, this was Sarah. _Well done, Mike,_ John thought absently.

“That’s what I love about you, Mike,” Sarah smiled at him fondly. “Even when someone is clearly an irredeemable old codger, you always want to help.”

“John’s not irredeemable!” Mike protested, his voice muffled a bit as he spoke away from the camera. “Really, you didn’t know him before. Before Sherlock, before he went to war, even. God, he was _so_ much more fun!”  
  
“Well, it wouldn’t take much to make him more fun than he is now!” Sarah jested.  
  
A bout of good-natured laughter swept through the room. In addition to Mike and Sarah, there were 5 or 6 other faces whom John was sure he’d never seen before in his life, but given their reactions to Sarah’s jab, they apparently knew all about him.

“I just can’t imagine someone hating Christmas, of all things! Why spoil other people’s fun?” lamented one of the guests, who was wearing a necklace strung with glass beads made to look like Christmas lights.  
  
“Exactly! I have no patience for men like that, and particularly not for John Watson,” observed a pretty brunette in a festive red-and-green reindeer jumper. If she hadn’t been actively insulting him, John might’ve considered chatting her up a bit. Although honestly he was no stranger to being casually put-down by the object of his affections, so he might’ve gone for it anyway, had he actually been there.

“Oh, I have plenty of patience for John!” countered Mike. “In all honesty, I feel a bit sorry for him. The person who suffers the most from his bad behaviour is himself. Like tonight, for example. He decides he won’t come to have Christmas with us, again, and what’s the consequence? He misses out on all this excellent company, and a delicious dinner!”  
  
Sarah beamed at Mike as he said this and, as he raised her hand to his lips, John caught sight of their matching wedding bands. John had never seen this side of Mike: so soft, doting, and clearly besotted. Mike had always played wingman when John was out on the pull, so it was honestly a bit unnerving to see any woman looking back at him with such obvious fondness. John couldn’t help feeling a small tinge of envy for Mike’s unexpectedly good fortune in love.

“Well, there’s more dinner for us then!” interjected a smarmy-looking man, who’d been not-so-subtly eyeing the brunette throughout the previous exchange. He wore a blue, snowflake-covered jumper that at first-glance spelled out “LET IT SNOW” and on second-glance revealed it actually spelled: “LE TITS NOW.” Everyone else in the circle agreed and reiterated to Sarah that it had been a fantastic dinner. John hadn’t seen what had been served, but he supposed they must all be trusted as competent judges, since they’d just eaten it.  
  
“Anyway, I was only going to say,” said Mike, “that I intend to give John the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but I’ll still be there, year after year, asking him to celebrate this joyous season with all of us.”  
  
“Here here!” shouted a slender ginger bloke wearing a knitted Santa hat. Everyone raised their glasses and clinked their glasses in honour of Mike’s endless Christmas cheer.

After a particularly hearty gulp, Mike slapped a hand on his knee and said, “Well! Shall we move on to games, then?”

His guests all excitedly agreed and made preparations for a game of Rizla. Everyone was instructed to write down the names of celebrities on rizla papers, then fold and deposit those papers into a bowl. Each person would then draw out a paper and, without looking at it, stick it to their foreheads. Players would then take turns asking the other players yes-or-no questions discover their new identity, as decided by the name on the paper. As the pens and papers were set out, everyone jotted down their answers and tossed the papers into the bowl on the table between them.  
  
Sarah was nominated to go first and, in just five questions, she discovered that her paper had assigned her the identity of Victoria Beckham. As she basked in her congratulations from the other players, Sarah smiled knowingly at the pretty brunette, and John got the impression those two had played this together before. The game continued and one by one the players went around the circle, drawing names and guessing various actors, celebrity chefs, and authors - both dead and alive - plus a few pop stars John had never even heard of.  
  
As the guessing went on, John gradually forgot that he was not actually in the room with everyone and began playing along. He could vaguely make out the names on the foreheads of the few guests facing him, so he was able to provide appropriate answers to their questions, and then tease them mercilessly with the rest of the players when they made their woefully off-base guesses. When John couldn’t see the names, he pretended he was the player instead, and began hazarding guesses to “his” identity quite loudly, and often correctly, to Mrs. Hudson’s surprise and amusement. She gazed tenderly at him, looking at him as though she’d never seen him smile before. Though of course she had seen him smile, and often, during his years with Sherlock in her Baker Street flat. As John guessed answer after answer, he was beaming as if he was listening to Sherlock expound on how brilliant his blogger was for discovering a crucial piece of evidence that wrapped up a week-long case. If Mrs. Hudson knew how to work the camera app on her mobile, she might’ve snapped a photo of him just then.  
  
Mike’s turn was next and he looked away from the bowl as drew his paper, then stuck it expertly to his forehead. John couldn’t see the name with Mike’s back was turned to him, but he quickly surmised the answer after a few rounds of questioning. John learned that Mike’s new identity was a human, who was a man; clever, in his own way; important, to some people; and someone that people generally don’t like because he rubs them up the wrong way.  
  
At that last bit of information, John shook his head and chuckled. “Oh my god, I can’t _believe_ he hasn’t guessed it by now.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson glanced sideways at him. “Who do you think it is, dear?“  
  
John turned to look at her, confused as to why she’d even asked. “Well, it’s Sherlock. Obviously.”  
  
“Ah,” Mrs. Hudson said, then pressed her lips together, returning her eyes dutifully to the screen. **  
**

“Oh, wait a minute, wait a minute- I know who I am!” Mike chuckled.

“Alright then, who are you?” challenged Sarah with a smirk.

Mike winced for a moment as he considered his answer. He looked as though he was equally afraid he that he might be right as much as he might be wrong.  
  
“Am I…” Mike cringed as he forced himself to answer, “John Watson?”  
  
The room erupted in boisterous laughter as it was confirmed that yes, he was indeed John Watson! Though smarmy looking man objected that the correct answer to “Am I human?” really ought to have been “sometimes,” even though that wasn’t strictly allowed by the rules.  
  
While the guests laughed, John’s face fell. All of the previous giddiness he had gained during the game left him as he realised that Sherlock, bastard that he was, had been right. John was, by his old friend’s and several stranger’s admissions, turning into Sherlock.  
  
“Well, he did try to warn you, John,” Mrs Hudson admonished him gently, as if reading his thoughts.

“Alright, alright, enough banter,” Mike chided his guests. “Let’s at least drink to the poor man’s health, eh? To John Watson, everyone!” Mike raised his glass.

“To John Watson!” the room cried and clinked their glasses together.

“And a Merry Christmas to the old bastard, wherever he is!” toasted Mike jovially. “He wouldn’t take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless!”  
  
The room broke into a fit of laughter once again as the scene slowly faded to black and the projector clicked off, leaving John and Mrs. Hudson alone in his kitchen once again, staring at the blank wall _.  
  
_

* * *

John was not in the habit of imagining what other people said or thought about him in his absence, but he found himself unnecessarily preoccupied with the fact that Mike Stamford, one of his oldest friends, now thought he was as cold, and unlikeable as the late Sherlock Holmes.  
  
“See? This!” John exclaimed, “This is exactly why I don’t go to these things! Nobody wants me there, not really. I’m just a conversation piece. ‘Oh look, there’s John Watson, the miserable old sod. He _used to be_ Sherlock Holmes’s live-in PA, Sherlock Holmes’s partner-in-crime, Sherlock’s Holmes’s bloody biographer! As if my sole purpose on this planet was to document Sherlock Holmes’s brilliance, and make him shine all the brighter by providing such an extraordinary contrast!  
  
“And you want to know the worst past? The worst thing in all of this? I’m absolutely terrified that they’re right. I am terrified that my entire life was defined by one man and two bloody years, and if that’s the case, then what the hell am I supposed to do now? Hm?”  
  
“You’re supposed to go on living, like all the rest of us!” said Mrs. Hudson. “It’s been ten years, John. You always had a constant parade of nice young things coming and going from Baker Street. I thought you might’ve at least _tried_ -”  
  
John scoffed. “Oh, I tried, god knows I tried. But you know what?No one wants to play second fiddle to a phantom for the rest of their lives,” John swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Besides, what the hell have I got to offer anyone?”  
  
“Well, you’re a lovely doctor-“  
  
“A lovely doctor?” John balked. “You could throw a stone in Trafalgar Square and hit a hundred other, _better_ GPs to replace me. At least to Sherlock Holmes, I was someone. And not just someone who tolerated him, or rode along on his coattails, or made sure he ate a meal now and then, but someone who actually saw him exactly as he was, and loved him for it. Heads in the fridge and all, god help me. At least to Sherlock Holmes, I was irreplaceable, and no one else will ever burn bright enough to light up the shadow he’s cast over my life, so why bother?”  
  
“Because there are those of us still living who are stupid enough to love you John, and we want you back!” pleaded Mrs. Hudson.  
  
“The John Watson you knew isn’t coming back,” he said resolutely. “Don’t you get it? This life that I’m living now, this is my punishment. For not seeing the signs, for not stopping him. I’m a bloody doctor, for christ’s sake! I should have known what was going on, and I should have stopped it.”  
  
“Oh for god’s sake, John, none of us knew! He’s Sherlock! How could anyone ever know what goes on in that funny old head of his?”  
  
“But _we_ should’ve known! How could we have not known?!” shouted John.  
  
He stood there for a moment, staring down at Mrs. Hudson accusingly. Then, as his anger gradually went out of him, he sank back down into his chair, defeated, and held his head in his heads.  
  
“I couldn’t save him, Mrs. Hudson. I couldn’t save him then, and no matter how many times that scene replays over and over and _over_ in my head, I can never save Sherlock Holmes.” He looked up at Mrs. Hudson, eyes swimming with regret. “So now, I’m saving everyone else. I’m saving them from the absolute torture of having to deal with the shattered remains of John Watson.”  
  
“Oh John, will you stop feeling sorry for yourself for one minute and just listen-“  
  
“No, you listen! This is my dream, my subconscious, and I’d very much like to know where the exit to all this is.”  
  
“‘Dream’? ‘Subconscious’?” Mrs. Hudson repeated incredulously.“What on earth are you going on about? John, dear, I’m sorry to inform you that this is all very real, and there is no exit to your life.”  
  
“No?” John countered, “Well _Sherlock_ certainly found one!”

John honestly thought she might’ve slapped him then. Instead, Mrs. Hudson calmly rose from her chair, then stepped forward the two pacesbetween them until she stood toe-to-toe with John.

“Now you just listen to me, for once in your stupid life,” she fumed, jamming a finger directly into John’s chest. “I know Sherlock’s dead and I know your heart is broken, but if you continue to let yourself shrivel up into a miserable, heartless little man, who will you have then, hm? Because I’ll tell you something, John Watson, you will not have me!”  
  
Upon finishing her outburst, Mrs. Hudson’s collapsed back into her chair and promptly burst into tears.  
  
“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” John blurted out, scrambling to kneel by her side, “I’m so, so sorry. Mrs. Hudson, please, _please_ forgive me.” John rubbed at her back reassuringly. “Please, I’m just- I promise, I’m not angry with you, I’m angry with me. For being like this, for letting myself get like this.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson lifted her head, eyes wet and puffy with tears. “Well, you would do well to remember that before you go on shouting at people!”  
  
“I will, I will. I promise, I will,” soothed John.  
  
Mrs. Hudson continued to sniffle for a few moments longer then blew her nose noisily into a handkerchief she’d pulled from her handbag.

“Now c’mon,” coaxed John, “what else have you got to show me, hm? Maybe a bit more ‘traumatising John’ time will help you feel better?”  
  
“You know,” sniffed Mrs. Hudson, “it just might. But actually, I think you’re going to like this one.”  
  
“Yeah?” said John. “Well, go on then. Show me.”

* * *

The projector hummed to life once again as Mrs. Hudson fiddled the small remote and soon a new scene lit up the kitchen wall. It was the same, slightly unnerving hidden-camera-style footage, but this time it showed a cosy little kitchen with a nearly-too-large table jammed in the centre of it. The well-worn wooden table was absolutely covered in various papers, forgotten tea mugs, open books, and one very ancient looking laptop. It vaguely reminded John of his old kitchen table back at Baker Street, minus the chemical burns Sherlock had inflicted on it.  
  
A pale teen with mop of curly dark hair was hunched over the table, rapidly typing away on the bulky laptop and occasionally referencing a small notebook filled with scribbles and what looked like anatomical drawings. At first glance, John could’ve sworn he was looking at a young Sherlock Holmes, except that the boy’s eyes were a luminous brown instead of Sherlock’s steely blue.  
  
“So, who’s this then?” John wondered aloud.  
  
Mrs. Hudson looked at him as though he’d just asked what sort of hot sauce she liked in her tea.

“That’s Archie Hooper, who do you think?”  
  
“Hooper?” John repeated, staring dubiously at the lad. “As in Molly Hooper?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded.

“Wait, I thought…” said John, “You said this was Christmas Present?”  
  
She nodded again.  
  
“Well, that can’t be right, because Molly Hooper does not have a son!”

“Oh John,” sighed Mrs. Hudson, “you really have got out of touch with everyone, haven’t you?”

“Apparently so,” John muttered, still trying to wrap his head around all this. “So, um, when did this happen?”

“Well, let’s see if I can remember,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Molly took in young Archie when his mother died, poor thing. He was only 7 or 8 at the time. Some sort of domestic-turned-murder with the estranged father - it was all over the news, don’t you remember? Anyway, all of a sudden the poor lad was an orphan with no extended family to speak of, and Molly was the boy’s godmother. But she never expected- I mean, how could anyone expect that sort of thing? So, Molly filled the papers to adopt him and he’s been here ever since,” she finished.  
  
When she caught sight of John’s dumbfounded expression, her brow crinkled with concern.  
  
“You really didn’t know?”

“No. No, I really didn’t.”  
  
As Mrs Hudson explained the origins of Archie Hooper, John had felt a sizeable lump of guilt churning in the pit of his stomach. Molly Hooper, a woman he’d known and worked with for 12 whole years, had a son. A full-grown, gangly, teenage son. And he’d had absolutely no idea.

“Well, why on Earth did you think she left Bart’s for your little surgery?” Mrs. Hudson asked.  
  
“Well, I thought, maybe,” John began uncertainly, feeling less and less confident in his deductions by the second, “that she was, I dunno, trying to keep an eye on me or something?”  
  
“Not everyone’s life revolves around you, dear. We’re not Sherlock, you know,” Mrs. Hudson quipped.  
  
“Cheers,” said John tartly. “So why did she, then?”  
  
“Well, you can’t exactly work all hours at a morgue with a little one at home, can you? A surgery clerk’s pay is atrocious, of course, but we all pitched in, early on, until the mother’s life insurance came through.”

John took a moment to process this. So, Molly Hooper hadn’t spying on him all these years. And apparently, she’d enough help from everyone else in her life that she wasn’t desperate enough financially to accept Mycroft Holmes’s bribes. Providing he’d even offered in the first place.  
  
 _So you got it wrong, then.  
  
_ The words that John had once said to Sherlock Holmes outside a Dartmoor bed-and-breakfast echoed through his mind. _  
  
You were wrong. It wasn’t in the sugar. You. Got. It. Wrong.  
_  
Except now, John had gotten it wrong. Molly wasn’t spying on him, and Mycroft probably couldn’t give a damn about what he was up to. John had got it wrong, and by god, he hated that feeling. Maybe he really was turning into Sherlock.  
  
Just then, John heard a small _click_ from the projector’s speakers and he watched as the young man, Archie, practically bounded straight into Molly Hooper as she opened the door of the flat. She manoeuvred carefully into the cramped space and hastily shut the door against the cold, which was admittedly a bit tricky with her arms full of Tesco bags and a full-grown teenager standing directly in her way. Archie, totally oblivious to her struggles, looked over her shoulders as if expecting to see someone accompanying her. Then, finding no one, he frowned.  
  
“So, what did he say?” Archie asked.  
  
Molly sighed. “I already told you, Archie, I’m not inviting him.”  
  
Molly plopped the heavy bags directly on top of the clutter on the table. She gazed at the chair next to her longingly, as if fighting the urge to collapse into it. Reluctantly, she pulled her eyes away and began methodically sorting the shopping into the fridge and the cupboards.  
  
“You didn’t even ask to see what he’d say?” grumbled Archie.  
  
“No, I didn’t,” Molly said. “The last thing he needs, especially this time of year, is a fanboy quizzing him all through his supper.”  
  
“But I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t even mention the blog, or Sherlock, or anything! I just want to _talk_ to him.”  
  
 _Ah, another Sherlock fan._ John silently thanked Molly for shielding him from that.  
  
“Maybe next year, Archie.”  
  
“You say that _every_ year,” groaned Archie petulantly.  
  
John chuckled. “Well, Molly’s certainly got her hands full with that one.”  
  
“Oh, he’s a good lad, really,” Mrs. Hudson scolded. “Very bright. And a very big fan of yours, actually.”  
  
John’s eyebrows shot up. “Hang on, a fan of _mine_?”  
  
“Oh yes! He’s practically memorised your little blog. And your CV, come to think of it. He and his friends even solved one of your old cold cases some years ago and Molly brought the Inspector ‘round to chat with him. He wanted him to consider joining The Yard when he finishes school, but Archie is determined to be a physician, ‘just like Doctor Watson.’“  
  
“Huh.”  
  
John wasn’t quite sure what to make of that revelation. To his knowledge, no one had ever been a fan of _his_ , which was reasonable, he supposed, when all of the media attention was focused on Sherlock’s brilliant deductions and leaps of logic, whereas John’s lesser contributions were rarely, if ever, mentioned.  
  
Prior to this instance, John had always felt reasonably certain that all of “their” fans were actually just Sherlock’s fans. These “Holmesians” as they called themselves, generally fell into one of two categories: Type A “I Believe in Sherlock Holmes” conspiracy theorists who insisted that the detective was still alive somewhere; or Type B, ambitiously flirtatious fans whose only interest in John was shagging the man they (wrongly) presumed had shagged Sherlock Holmes. In both cases, they were best to be avoided. So if John’s brain stuttered to a halt at the idea of someone actually being a fan of _his_ , well, he supposed no one could really fault him for it.  
  
Molly’s voice broke through John’s thoughts.  
  
“…because it’s true every year. He’s

still-“ she paused. “There’s a lot of anger there, Archie. My mum was the same when my dad died. I don’t want Doctor Watson taking that out on you. You’ve heard how he is with Sherlock’s admirers.”  
  
“Well, I’m not one of _Sherlock’s_ admirers,” Archie said defiantly.  
  
John felt a strange stab of pride at this. Was this how Sherlock had always felt? No wonder he was such an annoying dick all the time.  
  
“C’mon, Molly,” Archie whinged, “I am _this_ _close_ to proving he didn’t actually do it! Wouldn’t Doctor Watson want to know if I could prove Sherlock Holmes is still alive?”

 _Ah, there it is. Conspiracy theorist._  
  
Molly sighed and rubbed at her temples. “Archie, this kind of talk is exactly why we can’t have him ‘round. He already gets all kinds of nutters- _theorists_ ,” she quickly corrected, “commenting on his blog.”  
  
“You’re only a nutter if you’re wrong.” Archie raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Archie, listen to me,” said Molly sternly, “Sherlock Holmes is not coming back.”

Archie threw his hands on the air. “I’m not a kid anymore, Molly! I can tell when you’re lying. You must know _something_ and you’re not telling me.”  
  
In response to this outburst, Molly merely raised her chin, stern and unyielding, and glowered at him, folding her arms across her chest.  
  
 _If looks could kill,_ John thought absently.  
  
“ _Fine_ ,” Archie relented, “but even you have to admit, from a purely logical standpoint, that none of it makes any sense!”  
  
Archie began rummaging through the papers on the table.  
  
“Philip says that Sherlock Holmes would’ve _never_ killed himself, and especially not when he was _right_ on the brink of exposing Moriarty’s entire terrorist network, thereby disproving the whole Richard Brook facade and restoring his good name. And-“  
  
He typed rapidly on his laptop, then turned the screen to Molly.  
  
“How do you explain all these new cases being submitted to Sherlock’s website? There’s stuff on here not even the police know about! AND!”  
  
Archie snatched up a photocopied page from the table, and held it out to Molly triumphantly.  
  
“Laura showed me this article from EuroBlic. It says Moriarty’s network is, at this very moment, being systematically dismantled all over Europe! If Doctor Watson just _looked_ at the research The Watsonians have done-“

John turned to Mrs. Hudson, mildly amused. “The Watsonians?”

Mrs. Hudson shushed him. “That’s what they call their little club at his school,” she whispered, “You know, the ones who are all fans of yours.”

 _All fans of mine?  
  
_ So it wasn’t just Archie then. John Watson had a whole bloody school club named after him! John couldn’t quite wrap his head around the absurdity of that idea. A bunch of school kids, with their braces and their doodle-covered notebooks, all gathering ‘round their desks, gossiping excitedly; but instead of discussing who’s-dating-whom, or some new pop icon, they devoted their few extracurricular hours to theorising about the exploits of The Middle-Aged Wonder, Doctor John Hamish Watson, MBBS.  
  
John was just about to burst into hysterical laughter over _that_ visual when Archie’s tentative voice broke in.  
  
“And maybe, if Sherlock is alive, then…” Archie trailed off, swallowing hard. “Maybe he could help. With Dad, I mean. Prove he didn’t actually… you know.”  
  
Molly brought her fingers to Archie’s face, gently, tracing them down his cheek. Tears welled up in the teen’s eyes, but he blinked and rubbed them away.

“Archie, listen, sweetheart,” Molly said, softly. “I love you _so_ much, and I love that you’re so passionate about all this. And if I thought for a moment that there was anything Doctor Watson could do to help, I wouldn’t hesitate. You know how much we’ve done, how hard we’re all tried and he’s still so... unlike like himself. Really, if there was anything I could do to help him, I would do it in a heart beat. But this, coming here, with us, it won’t help.”  
  
Archie studied her for a moment, looking for any trace of misdirection, any doubt, some bit of insincerity. There was none. Archie looked at his shoes, defeated.

“ _Fine_ ,” he whispered, almost to himself. Then, a bit louder, almost petulantly, “But he’s stronger than you think he is.” Archie shifted irritably in his chair, kicking the leg of the table for good measure. Then he dragged his laptop over to him and began clacking away at it, ignoring Molly.  
  
 _For a Watson fan,_ John thought, _he’s certainly got his Sherlockian brooding down to an art._ Although, seeing as Sherlock was probably one of John’s biggest fans, he supposed that made sense.  
  
“Have you heard anything from Dr. Stamford?” Molly asked, delicately.  
  
 _Stamford? Mike Stamford?_  
  
John must have missed something.  
  
“ _No_ ,” Archie spat, reflexively. Then, as if realising that _may_ not have been the best tone for talking to the woman who raised him, he sighed and began again, softer. “No, I haven’t. But the deadline’s not for weeks. There’s still plenty of time.”  
  
“True, but the earlier the better,” she said, her voice pitching up with her not-so-subtle hint. Archie rolled his eyes, and John could tell it wasn’t the first time Molly had ‘suggested’ this.  
  
“Also, I know we talked about it already, but you’re absolutely sure you don’t want to apply anywhere else?“  
  
Archie shook his head. “Definitely sure. Doctor Watson went to King’s College and trained at UCL. I don’t want to go anywhere else.” _  
  
Wow. Fanboy indeed._  
 _  
_“Okay, it’s just…” she hesitated, “Well, I’m not sure that we’ll be able to make it work. Financially, I mean.”  
  
“Well then I’ll just keep working weekends and nights at the hospital until we have enough,” reasoned Archie. “I’ve got to go there, Molly. I know I can do it.”  
  
Molly smiled fondly at him. “I know you can too, Archie. Just make sure work doesn’t get in the way of revision for your A-levels.” _  
_  
“It _won’t_ ,” he groaned, exasperated.

“Hospital?” John frowned.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Molly helped get him on as a nurse’s assistant over at St. Bart’s. You know, just changing linens and bringing food, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, I know what a nurse’s assistant is, Mrs. Hudson. I am still a doctor, even if I’m not working in hospital.”

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. “Well, you do have a habit of forgetting things you haven’t seen in a while…”

John chuckled. “God, you’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Definitely not,” she smiled, nudging him.  
  
On the screen, Molly had finally finished putting away the last of the shopping, then settled into a chair and began sorting the sheets of paper and flimsy scattered across the table into vaguely neater stacks. Archie, who was fiddling with his phone, looked up as Molly slunk down next to him, studying her for a moment.  
  
“Molly, can I ask you something?”  
  
“Of course, sweetheart,” she replied naturally, not looking up from her tidying.  
  
“It’s just…” Archie chewed his lip. “The papers said you were the one who identified him. Sherlock, I mean. You were the one who laid him out. Just like you did with Mum. But I’ve never heard you talk about it, not once, so I just think- I mean. Maybe, if you got it wrong with Sherlock-”  
  
“Sweetheart, of course I wouldn’t talk to you about your mum! I thought the reason for that should be obvious. As for Sherlock, well…” Now it was Molly’s turn to bite her lip. “Would you talk about doing a post-mortem on one of your best friends?” Molly raised an eyebrow at him.  
  
Archie shrugged. “I mean, yeah, probably-”  
  
“Archie!”  
  
Archie winced, then glanced up at her sheepishly. “Not good?”  
  
John inhaled sharply. Those words, combined with that eerily Sherlockian face of his, had nearly stopped John’s heart.  
  
“Definitely not good,” Molly chided him gently, then swept his unruly hair back to kiss his forehead.  
  
“Now c’mon, let’s put this shopping to good use and we might just have a proper Christmas dinner before the day’s over.”  
  


* * *

  
The image from the projector froze on Molly and Archie, mid-conversation. John’s brain reeled as it tried to sort out everything that was just thrown at him.  
  
So, Molly Hooper had a son. And, somehow more inexplicably, a son that was fan of John Watson. John, with his very own fan. Huh.

Apart from his brief time with Sherlock, John had always considered his life to be entirely unremarkable, so to hear someone — a teenager, no less — discussing his life and accomplishments as if he were some great literary hero was utterly bizarre.  
  
“Well, that was, um… unexpected?” John faltered, trying and failing to provide an adequate description of what just happened.  
  
“I’d imagine so. Not quite like the fans your used to?” Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Definitely not.”

John marvelled at the frozen image of Archie. He was _so_ like Sherlock, John could hardly stand it, but he had a sort of righteous defiance, a level of reckless stubbornness, that was John all over. Sure, Sherlock had his moments — _definitely_ had his moments — but he was reckless with himself, or with other people, or with silly rules that didn’t make sense. This was different. This was about proving to himself, proving to the world, that the people he loved were truly good, were worthy of the admiration he so freely gave them. It made John’s heart ache, remembering those horrible few years between Sherlock’s death and the clearing of his name, which the lead to several more years of convincing people that Sherlock was not, in fact, a conniving proprietor of second-rate parlour tricks.

But he supposed it all made sense, in a way. Archie had suffered a great loss, too. The very specific loss of having someone you loved snuffed out by someone else you loved was not exactly a universal experience. And in John’s case, Sherlock had played both the killer and the victim.

So John unfortunately understood what the boy had gone through, and was currently going through, all too well. He had heard that dangerous siren call, the one that sounded the minute you heard the news, or watched their body carted away, all bloody and broken:  
  
 _Maybe it’s not real,_ the sirens whispered. _Maybe they’re not actually dead._

As if your mind could just will them back into existence by thought alone, if you only theorised, and researched, and _begged_ the universe hard enough. Maybe you could _make_ _them_ come back.  
  
Well. John had ten years of grief that proved otherwise.  
  
The fact that Archie, at his far-too-young age, almost certainly understood the unique type of deep-seated fear and loss that John had experienced made him want to gather the boy up in his arms and tell him everything would be just fine, that nothing in this world would ever hurt him like this again. Basically, lie to him. A helpful lie, but a lie all the same. The world would likely never be the same again, for Archie or for John.  
  
Still, maybe John could help him. Gently guide him around to accepting that his mother was really, truly gone, and that his father, murderous prick that he was, got what he deserved. Then maybe, just maybe, he could convince him hard enough so that he wouldn’t become what John had turned into after all these years.

But that all hinged entirely on John actually waking up from this nightmare and Archie being something more than a complex egotistical fantasy dredged up by his subconscious. Well, only one more visitor to go, Sherlock had said, and then he’d know for certain.  
  
“I swear,” said John, pointing at the screen, “if I wake up and I’ve just imagined that child-“  
  
“He’s very real, John,” assured Mrs. Hudson. “Promise. Cross my heart.”  
  
John took a deep breath. Well, he supposed he could accept that, for now. As much as one could accept the word of a figment of your imagination.  
  
“No, I mean it, Mrs. Hudson. Who that boy thinks I am…” John paused, swallowing around a sudden lump in his throat, “Who Sherlock thinks I am — or rather, _thought_ I was — _That_ is the man I want to be.”

“Well, then,” Mrs. Hudson leaned in conspiratorially. “Get the hell on with it, John.”  
  
John chuckled, then pulled her into a hug, kissing the top of her head affectionately.  
 _  
_“Well, now,” said Mrs. Hudson with a sigh, drawing back. “That’s better, isn’t it? But I really best be going before _The Queen_ arrives.”She began disassembling the small projector and shoving the various components into her handbag.  
  
John watched her, his eyes wide. “Wait, seriously? The _Queen_? In my flat?”  
  
Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. “In a manner of speaking.”  
  
Right. Whatever _that_ was supposed to mean. She and Sherlock definitely had a shared bad habit of spouting cryptic nonsense, then explaining it to no one. Maybe that’s why they’d gotten along all those years.  
  
As she turned to leave, John caught her by the elbow. _  
  
_“Um, Mrs. Hudson. Can I, uh,” John fumbled, trying to get the words out. “Can I… come ‘round, sometime? For tea, or- or something? I think…” He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Yeah. I think I’m ready.”  
  
She gave him a knowing look. “You came come 'round any time you like, John. It’s still your home, too.”  
  
John blinked. “Wait, you mean-“  
  
She shrugged. “I haven’t changed a thing. Couldn’t bear to. Well, after the first real, deep clean — I wasn’t about to leave the fridge in that state. But besides that and the occasional dusting, it's all still there. Like a museum or something.”  
  
John’s heart leapt into his throat, and he gasped a bit, his eyes swelling with tears.

 _Baker Street._ His home. _Their_ home. More or less exactly as they had left it.

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson!" He kissed her cheek soundly. "As ever, you are _amazing_.”  
  
“Oh, stop it, you!” Mrs. Hudson nudged him away, smiling. “But really, John. You’re going to have to buck up a bit. You know that, don’t you?”  
  
“I'll do my best,” he said, straightening himself up.  
  
“Alright. Well, anything you need, dear, any time. Just ask.”  
  
He nodded. “I will. ‘Course.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson squeezed his arm affectionately. “Good." She took a quick glance around the flat, then finding nothing else, she hurried herself out the door, shutting it softly behind her. Which left John alone, once again, just as his mobile’s alarm chimed for the third time that evening.

John sucked in a breath. _  
  
Ah. Midnight, at last.  
  
_

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is loved and appreciated! xx


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